Nightmare
by HLJ137
Summary: Joan has a nightmare, and Sherlock searches for a way to comfort her through it. One-shot, fuffy and borderline platonic Joanlock.


On a stormy Friday night, Sherlock and Joan had stayed up late working on a particularly frustrating and gruesome case. They had been discussing the case for awhile, but as no breakthroughs had become apparent, they'd each fallen silent and retreated into their own thoughts.

Sherlock had been sitting on the floor, his notes and pictures spread out around him in an order only he understood. Joan, on the other hand, had curled up on the sofa, her neatly organized notepad the only item she took to consult.

After a few hours of running through scenario after scenario in his head, Sherlock had begun pacing the brownstone in an attempt to keep his endorphins running so he could stay alert despite the long week and the late hour.

As he completed another circuit of the brownstone and came back into the room, Sherlock noticed that Watson had fallen asleep on the sofa with her notepad resting on her side. Sherlock sighed, realizing he would be on his own for the rest of the night. Even attempting to sleep would be useless until he figured out at least something in the case. Absentmindedly, Sherlock pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and laid it over Joan's sleeping form before retaking his place among his notes. He decided to stop the pacing in an effort not to wake her. She needed to sleep. If they were going to have any hope of solving this case, he'd need her alert and sharp once again tomorrow.

Some amount of time later (Sherlock had lost track of the passage of time), Sherlock heard a strange noise. Lifting his head, he waited to see if it would repeat. When it did, he realized it was a whimper of some sort.

With a start, he realized it was coming from Watson. He kept listening, observing her more closely than he had been before. Sure enough, she made the sad sound again, louder this time. Her face betrayed a mix of negative emotions, going from grief to anger and back again so quickly it was hard to discern the change. But Sherlock knew her well enough to notice. He knew her expressions intimately. He could tell by her unconscious expressions that she was very upset.

Startlingly, he realized Watson was having a nightmare. Sherlock froze, unsure of what to do. Should he wake her? That would be the sensible thing to do.

But for some reason, waking her in the middle of a nightmare seemed like much more of an intrusion than bursting into her room in the morning and waking her up to get to work on a new case. In this state, she was much more vulnerable, and waking her now seemed to be far too intimate. Sherlock didn't like the idea.

Instead, he attempted to return to work on the case.

That didn't work. He couldn't focus. He told himself it was because the noises Watson was making were distracting him, but deep down he knew that was only an excuse.

Sherlock was acutely aware of the pain on his partner's face. Watson was a private person, so when she was upset she typically hid it from him very well. Very rarely did she let him see her upset, and perhaps never _this_ upset. Sherlock's eyes kept straying up from his notes to her face, and he found himself spending far more time analyzing her expressions than analyzing the case. Her nightmare appeared to be very bad. She was quite upset, and it pained Sherlock to watch her.

After a few minutes, Sherlock had had enough. Listening to her pitiful unconscious cries was killing him. He had to wake her.

But how? Perhaps he could just make a loud noise and pretend he hadn't noticed her when she awoke? Somehow, that didn't seem quite right. Instead, Sherlock walked over to the sofa until he was standing right in front of it and said, "Watson?"

No response.

He tried again, a bit louder: "Watson?"

Nothing.

Sherlock sighed. This wouldn't work. She was in deep REM sleep and wouldn't awake at the mere calling of her name. He was going to have to do more.

Sherlock grimaced. He wasn't good at this. This felt way too intimate, far beyond the boundaries of their typical relationship, and it made him distinctly uncomfortable. However, standing there watching her face contort in pain was far more uncomfortable, even painful.

He really had no choice.

Slowly, Sherlock reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. He gave it a little shake, saying, "Watson?"

Joan awoke with a start. She jumped, and Sherlock consequently jumped back, removing his hand from her shoulder. Joan sat there staring at him for a moment, unsure of where she was. She rubbed her eyes and made some unintelligible noises.

Sherlock bounced on his feet and shifted his glance around, evidently ill at ease. He felt the need to explain himself. "Sorry to wake you, Watson," he mumbled, "but you, um, you were having a nightmare, so..." he trailed off, waiving his hand to indicate their current situation.

Joan looked away, studying her feet. "Thanks for waking me," she said, her voice still wobbling from the effects of her dream. It was a recurring nightmare she'd been having lately, but it was worse this time. She must have been making noise if Sherlock had noticed and decided to wake her.

Looking back up, Joan realized Sherlock was still studying her. He was bouncing and wringing his hands as he did so, clearly nervous. She knew this wasn't the kind of situation he was good at handling. It was probably better for her to just go up to her room and spare him the awkwardness of dealing with her emotions, and Joan knew that. However, after that nightmare she really didn't want to be alone.

Rubbing her eyes again, Joan motioned toward the notes Sherlock had spread across the floor. "Sorry I dozed off," she said. "Let's get back to work."

However, before she got up, Sherlock shook his head. "No. You need to rest, Watson," he said, motioning his head toward her bedroom. "This case is difficult, but it can wait until the morning when you're fully rested and sharp."

Joan sighed. She had no desire to go to her room right now. She just dropped her head into her hands, unwilling to argue with him.

After a few moments of award silence, Sherlock realized she wasn't getting up. Tentatively, he asked, "Watson?" When she looked up at him, he continued, "Are... are you alright?"

Joan sighed again. "I will be," she muttered.

Sherlock took that for a "no". She was clearly still upset, and he wished he knew how to help. Frustratingly, he didn't. His better judgment told him he should walk away and cede to her desire to just return to work. However, concern for his partner and friend won out, and Sherlock found himself making his way to sit next to her on the sofa.

When he sat down, Joan glanced up at him in surprise. Still nervous, Sherlock studied his hands. After an awkward minute, he asked, "do you want to talk about it?"

Joan shook her head. "Not really."

"But you're too afraid to go back to sleep," Sherlock observed. Joan glared at him. He shrugged. "Your response to my suggestion that you go get some rest was indicative of your desire to remain awake, presumably to avoid a return of the nightmare which had just been plaguing you."

Wearily, Joan looked away again with a small nod. It was useless to deny it. Against her better judgment, she found herself saying, "it's not the first time I've had that one..."

Turning to look at her, Sherlock studied her face as she looked at the floor. She was still upset, that much was obvious. But there was something else hidden in her expression: reservation. Whatever it was that was haunting her dreams, she was hesitant to tell him about it.

Slowly, Sherlock said, "Watson," drawing her name out long enough to get her to look up at him. Quietly, he added, "just tell me."

Joan debated on whether to tell him or not. She wanted to just escape to her room, but she doubted that was possible. Sherlock's curiosity had been peaked, and she knew he wouldn't just let it go without an explanation. And she was too exhausted to argue with him.

Eventually, her exhaustion overcame her internal filter. Joan looked down again, unable to explain herself while looking him in the eye. Finally she whispered, "it's you. Every time. You're-" her voice cracked, so she tried again. "-dying, and I'm there, but-" this time she wasn't able to choke back her tears, "-I'm always too late." Furiously, she rubbed her eyes again, embarrased about being so upset over something she knew wasn't real.

Sherlock gaped at her, completely at a loss for what to say. When it was clear he wasn't going to say anything, Joan stood up. "I know it's stupid," she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "It's just a dream, but... it feel so _real_. And it keeps coming back... And it's worse every time."

As her arms came to rest at her sides, she met his eyes once again. His gaze was filled with concern for her, and Joan almost lost control of her tears once again. Swallowing them, she sat back down next to him, closer than she had been before.

He noticed. Hesitantly, he took one of her hands in his. "It's not stupid, Watson," he promised her, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But you may rest assured I'm not going anywhere."

At his touch and his voice, Joan lost all the control she had left. As her tears began to fall freely, she let her head fall to his shoulder. "I'm just so _tired_ , Sherlock," she cried.

Sherlock sat there stiffly for a moment, immensely out of his element. But once again, concern for his friend won out over his natural reservations. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer until her shoulders rested against his chest and her head was tucked under his chin. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

After a few minutes, Joan's tears stopped falling and her breathing returned to normal. As her eyes started to close again, she whispered, "thank you, Sherlock," against his chest. Slowly, he heard her breathing slow down. In a few more minutes, she was asleep again.

Tentatively, Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. "Always, Watson," he whispered.

Not wanting to disturb her, Sherlock shifted as slowly as he could until he was comfortable too. It looked like he wasn't going to be getting up for awhile, so he decided he might as well get some rest too. Shortly, he succumbed to sleep as well.

They spent the rest of the night like that, comfortably asleep in each other's arms.

Joan's nightmare didn't return.


End file.
